








MOODS 

PROSE POEMS 

hy 
Mercedes de A casta 













■ 




■ 


P 


h:- 




1 


1 




^F" 

i 


F' '. 


^^^1 






Rsi •' 


1 

.i ; 




1 




,'V.- 


J . > 






1 


1.'", " 












Class _liLa5^_ 

RnnV C') M ('^ 



COEXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



MOODS 



MOODS 

Prose Poems 

by 

Mercedes de Acosta 




NEW YORK 
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 

1919 



60^ 



A d \ 



.t^,^ 



Copyright, 1919, by 
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY 



litb 15 1919 



S)CI.A559054 



xvaX) 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Memory 3 

Faith 5 

Love 7 

Disgust 10 

Joy 13 

Despair 16 

, Tenderness 18 

Hurt Feelings 22 

^ Weariness M 

Opportunity 26 

Time 28 

Revelation 31 

Finding God 34 

^ ^ Brainstorm 38 

Peace 41 

Twilight Dreams 44 



INTRODUCTION 

There is a happy gift revealed in these little 
pastels, vignettes, or whatever one wishes to name 
such fragments that Miss de Acosta has written 
and which refuse to be catalogued and classi- 
fied. They stand out in one's reading in refresh- 
ing contrast to many opaque books of verse. 
They are not poetry ; but they are the most sing- 
able prose, and they have a haunting quahty, a 
breath of mystery, as though a ghost walked in a 
garden. They are strange, but they are human 
too; for if Miss de Acosta has anything it is a 
belief in, and an understanding of, her fellow 
human beings. In the little picture of the tired 
woman in the subway she shows with what feel- 
ing her heart is charged ; and in the fragment of 
the studio, the climax is deftly approached. Brief 
as these glimpses of human experience are, they 
leave one with a sense of finality. It is as though 
a door were suddenly opened, or a window 
quickly raised — and then as suddenly closed 
again. But one has seen the room in its entirety, 
and the interior has been photographed on the 
brain. 



Miss de Acosta, who comes forward here with 
her first volume, bears promise of even finer 
achievement. I hke the perfume of these flow- 
ers. And I like her directness, her obvious sin- 
cerity, her passion for the truth as Life reveals 
it to her, and her endeavor to give the reader a 
swift, vivid picture. She may go very far. 

Charles Hanson Towne. 



2 



MEMORY 

Do you know I am living tonight in a 
cloud of memory? 

I, who always preach to you of looking 
forward, am sitting here silently looking 
backward and tearing the veil from off 
the dead faces of the past. 

Memory is a strange thing, so poignant and 
alive in its insistence, so dead and 
lifeless in its reality, so cruel and 
portentous in its regrets. 

It is curious how, merely in the brain, 
wide vistas of recollection can be opened, 
and whole pictures of the past stretch 
before us by simply recalling the touch 
of a hand, by the stirring of a soft 
breath of wind, by a sad prolonged 
street cry, or by the heavy atmospheric 
pressure of a warm summer's night. 

Sometimes it is a strain of music across 
far waters that brings back long-distant 



—3 



years; again it is the odor of a box suddenly 
opened, which gives forth the fragrance 
of violets or rose leaves long since 
dead and which instantly brings a tug 
at the heart strings and fills the throat 
with burning tears. 

It seems to me a comparatively easy thing 
to suppress our memories during the day, when 
a host of things come clamoring and crowding 
for us to accomplish. 

But the past, with its sad, tragic eyes and 
fantastic shapes, its shrill, melancholy wails 
and dear, dead voices, its heavily perfumed 
flowers, its vibrating, pulsing music, its 
soft, caressing touches and maddening, heart- 
rending regrets — these all come filing 
back one by one and play upon the soul 
and make the lips turn white. , . . 
Sometimes at night! 



—4— 



FAITH 

I THINK it does not matter so much what we be- 

heve 
as what we want to believe, — the desire seems 
to me greater than the aceomphshment. 

They say "men live by hope," but I feel men 

must 
live by faith or else they perish. 
Or perhaps faith and hope are very closely akin — 
one being the Touch of God, and the other being 
the Breath of a Divine Perfume He has tossed 
out upon the world, so that man might still 
find a smile where there seemed only to be tears. 

Today I do not feel that I am groping my way 
as I have heretofore done, but a strange exal- 
tation 
is in me as though a star had caught in my hair, 
or as if a piece of the moon had come down and 
brushed against my cheek. 

I wonder could you understand if I told you 
why? 



—5 



If I tell you that for days and nights my soul 
has been writhing in a corner of darkness, — 
oppressed by a thousand apprehensions and 

crushed 
by the weight of fear? 

Until today no light has come its way and yet 
do you know that in that solitude and stillness 
I have been conscious of a little something 
stirring in me and trying to make me believe 
that help would come? 

But the dreariness came again and strange 
grotesque shapes pressed about me and bade 
me let go and sink and sink 

Then I lay despairing and could not move 
or raise my eyes — ^but suddenly, when 
my faith had almost ceased to be . . . 

God put out His Hand and, stooping down — 
touched me! 



6- 



LOVE 

It seems absurd I did not recognize it at once, 
but at first my thoughts were indefinite 
and I did not know by what name to call it. 
I had always looked upon it as something 
so much more personal and individual, and 
coming this way as it did, it seemed new and 
strange. It came to me in the subway. 
I remember it had been raining and as I 
entered the train I remarked to myself on 
the hideous smell of damp clothing and 
dripping umbrellas. At first the crowd was 
oppressive; I who hate crowds so, shrank 
a little and tried to gain my balance. It 
was just then the peculiar thing happened . . . 

Suddenly, in spite of the fact that I was 
pushed and pulled here and there I did not 
seem to mind. A man rose giving me a seat, 
and as I sank into it and the crowds thinned 
out at a station, I looked across the train 
and saw a woman dozing in the corner. Her 
face was worn, white and pinched; 
her clothes dirty and her hat sliding off. 

—7— 



Every time the train swayed her head lurched 
forward, each second seeming to assmne a more 
uncomfortable position. I looked at her 
pathetic face and longed with all my heart 
to put her tired head upon my shoulder, 
taking my coat and wrapping it around her 
emaciated form. 

Then I looked down the train and saw an old 

man; 
he had apparently been to the hospital, because 
his head was bandaged and his face contracted 
from time to time in pain. He gazed slyly 
about, and when he thought no one was looking 
he spat upon the floor between his legs. 
Ordinarily I should have wanted to kill 
him for it, but then, oddly enough, I felt 
no disgust but only a great pity and sympathy 
for him. 

A small child opposite was screaming shrilly 
and every few seconds licking the window pane, 
while his parents fought and argued with each 
other beside him. I wanted to take their hands 
and tell them not to quarrel and I longed to 
take the child on my lap ; cuddling it to me 
and distracting it from the soiled window pane. 

Then as I gazed at all the faces along the seats 
a great understanding and sympathy for them 
sprang 



—8- 



up within me. I wished I could take them by 
the hand one by one out into the sunlight, giving 
them what they most desired, and then be able to 
rejoice at their good fortune in which I would 
share no part. 

I forgot myself completely and a spirit of 
exaltation came to me such as I had never 
experienced before. The subway ceased to smell 
and upon each face and in my heart I seemed to 
discern a great light. 

I held my breath while I felt as if I were being 
carried on by some unknown harmony and 

rhythm ; 
I was sure that all the eyes in the train had 
grown kindly and that no one harbored evil in 
his heart. 

Before the feeling faded away — as I knew it 

would — 
and left me again my same selfish and miserable 
self, I longed to ascertain what this sublime 
mood could be. As I wondered, back from my 

brain 
and all the way down to my heart I heard the 
words beating and hammering my answer 

"This is love!" they cried. 



—9— 



DISGUST 

Do you remember the day I left your house so 
suddenly and rushed out on the street? 
Or perhaps you do not recall it and did not 
remark my absence, — you had so many people 

there, 
and your house was fragrant with such quantities 
of flowers, and every one seemed to pretend at 

being 
gay, even if he were not. 

And I? I left it all behind me because I heard 
you boasting in such a light-hearted way of all we 
had dreamed of and loved so well. 

My heart trembled at your careless words and I 
closed my ears and rushed out before you should 

have 
killed my last illusion and made me hate you. 
Your house, which a few moments before seemed 

gay 
and bright, suddenly flung from out its windows 

the 
flag of hypocrisy, and became meaningless and 

empty. 

—10— 



My head ached; and I hurried aimlessly along 

the 
street peering into the faces of the passers-by, 
thinking that in humanity I should find a solace 

and 
an answer. . . . But they only pushed and 

knocked against 
me and not one spirit spoke to me. 

Then I went into the museum and thought that 

there 
with art I could find revelation and be comforted. 
So I walked through the galleries, but I was 

followed 
unendingly by the same upsparing mob that 
jostled me in the streets, and suspicious guards 
glared at me while all around hung low rows 
of portraits in heterogeneous fashion which, 

melting 
into one another, lost their personality and meant 
nothing to me. 

So I dragged myself out again into the spring 

air and walked wearily toward the park. There, 

reaching a bench, I sank down and thought 

at last I could relax undisturbed. 

But a drunken man came and sat beside 

me and nudged my elbow, so I rose and moved 

away and wondered if there were any place 

—11— 



in the whole wide world where one could be 
really alone and unimbittered. 

Friendship, art and all the things I cherished 
seemed to have failed me. 
Suddenly I thought of death! ^ 

Then, meditating on the last long sleep, a 
sense of great peace and the solitude I 
had longed for came over me . . , 

But only for a brief instant, because I 
remembered with anguish that, even in 
death, one could not be alone ; and the 
thought of overcrowded and congested 
cemeteries filled my soul with horror; 
and I shuddered! 



—12— 



JOY 

I LOOKED out of the window at the snow 
on the ground and something in the 
sunlight made me throw aside my books 
and go out. 

T do not recall how I reached there, 
but I found myself in the heart of the 
park, and maybe because it was so 
early, or I do not know quite why, — 
it seemed empty, — I looked across the 
white stretch of glistening snow and 
my heart beat with joy at being alone. 
Suddenly something very odd happened to me: 

Everything and everyone in my life 
seemed to drop away from me ; I felt 
as though my spirit had been freed 
and as if no harm could ever come 
to me again. 

So I laughed and blew my breath out 
in the cold air and waved it good-bye, 
and I shouted aloud and tossed the 



13 



snow from side to side with my feet. 

I knew you would be waiting for me and 

be angry, but that and all things else 

seemed very remote and far away, so 

I dismissed it from my mind and did not 

think of it again. 

Then I pretended I was Columbus discovering 
America and I called out "land ahead." 
But after, I changed and pretended I was 
Jeanne d'Arc leading the French army, 
and all the while sang the Marseillaise 
because it thrilled me so and I waved my 
arms and danced. 

Then I decided to be the wind, and I 
ran as fast as I could and fell down 
in the snow, jumped up again and laughed 
some more. 

I threw kisses and made faces at the sun 
and I tried to catch the little diamonds 
that gleamed on the snow, — but each one 
lured me on to another, until it seemed 
like an eternal mirage, — so I stood still, 
drew a long breath and thanked God for Life ! 

Then as I walked on I felt that I possessed 
everything, because I had youth, health 
and ambition. 



14- 



And the whole world seemed to be stretching 
out its alluring hands before me with 
wonderful rose-tipped fingers! 



—15— 



DESPAIR 

One day I said, "There is no such thing as 
love," and something closed up within 
me ; and although I looked upon people 
I knew I did not see them. Some horrible 
apprehension seemed to grip at my heart 
with ice boned hands. I felt nauseated 
and sick. 

I went home and closed my door and, for 
the first time in my life, threw my 
books into a corner and broke my pens 
and pencils. 

After that outburst I sat down and tried 
to think, but all my thoughts seemed 
draped in long garbs of black crepe that, 
stealing in and out through my mind like 
phantoms on tiptoe, gave me no peace. 

I thought what a failure my life had been 
and I believed every one had deserted 

me. 
I longed to die! 

—16— 



I saw your roses, but I threw them 

on the floor and stepped on them because 

they seemed fresh and gay ; and a thousand 

sad thoughts rushed through my mind, while 

I felt as if I were being oppressed by 

all the nightmares of the world and beating 

my soul against a closed iron door. 

Then I remembered that people said "tears 

soothe 
the heart;" so I prayed to be allowed to weep, 
but instantly cursed myself for praying 
and cried aloud, "There is no God!" 

And all night long I sat in darkness, staring 
into space with clenched hands, repeating the 
words over and over again, "No love, no hope"- 
"No love, no hope" . . . 



17— 



TENDERNESS 

They always said of her that she was selfish 
and spoiled and that, although she lived in a 
big house and had everything in the world 
money could buy, no one really eared about her 
for herself. 

They admitted she had beauty, but they said her 
face was hard and bitter and that her only 
power lay in her worldly prosperity, which had 
a certain empty, insincere following, — but 
that she had no real influence because she did 
not have a heart and no one loved her. 

I used to hear them talking about her rudeness 
and her detached indifference, and they seemed 
to excite themselves greatly about her, 
and grow angry and shrug their shoulders; 
then they would always end by thanking God 
they were not like her. 

After these discussions — in which I took no 
part — I always went home and thought about 
her. 

—18— 



And then one day I went to hear Kreisler play. 
I think he played more exquisitely than I had 
ever heard him before ; perhaps it was the 
music of Beethoven that moved me so or, 
more likely, the mingling of both their spirits 
that tore so plaintively at rny soul. 

Whatever the cause, I felt a great spell upon me, 
and I saw nothing and was not conscious where 
I was until, suddenly and accidentally, my eyes 
fell upon her face; I was brought back to my 
surroundings, — and all the things I had heard 
about her came to me, and went crowding 

through 
my mind. 

She was not alone in the box, although she 
sat apart in a corner, separated from the 
other people as it seemed to me she always 
was. She was leaning a bit forward with 
her hands clasping her knees, her lips a 
trifle apart and seeming singularly pale; 
but what I noticed most was the expression 
in her eyes, which had an entreaty and a 
pathos in them I had never seen in any face 
before, — and her mouth was strangely soft with a 
look of sweetness about its corners. 

She was not looking at Kreisler, but gazing out 
before her as though at something we others 
could 

—19— 



not see, and I was filled with a peculiar sensation 
that she understood and felt things which were 

remote 
from other people. 

Then I looked away because somehow I felt as if 
I were spying at her with her mask off, and 
looking upon her soul! 

The violin stopped and, as the last notes vibrated 
and died away and were swallowed up in the ap- 
plause, 
I looked at her again. 

Once more the hard look was on her face and the 
bitter pain in her eyes. 

I saw the people she was with exchange a casual 
remark with her, and then draw a little aside 
and talk among themselves. 

All at once a great wave of tenderness came over 

me, 
and I longed with sudden eagerness to put my 

arms 
about her and draw her to me. I wanted to tell 
her not to be lonely and sad and bitter, because 
I knew she was not all they said she was, and all 
they had made her with their idle talk. 

I wanted to hold her hand and tell her I under- 
stood 

—20— 



and sympathized with her, and that I knew she 

only 
seemed all the things they said, simply because 
no one ever kissed her. 



21 



HURT FEELINGS 

You remember of course the day I acted so 
queerly in your studio? 

How happy we were going up the stairs, and how 
we laughed and vowed it would be the most won- 
derful 
day we had ever spent! 

*'The day of days," you called it. 

And do you remember how I tripped and 
dropped the tea and sugar packages, and you 

dropped the cake in 
an effort to steady me — and how we sat down 

on the 
steps and laughed and laughed as though it was 

the 
funniest thing in the whole wide world? 

And then in the corridor you would not let me 

open 
the door until you had kissed my hands. 

But as soon as we were in the studio something 
seemed to snap within me, my mood changed 
entirely 

—22— 



and I ceased to laugh ; I put the packages on the 

table 
and was very quiet. 

Of course you thought I had one of my old-time 
headaches, and you took out that absurd headache 
cologne — which never does the slightest bit of 

good — 
and insisted upon spraying it over me. 

And you tried to make me laugh again and kissed 

my 
neck, but in spite of the fact that you looked like 
an injured little child, I stood looking out of the 
window and, when you asked me what was the 
matter, I merely replied "nothing." 

Then in the face of all your desperate entreaties 
I left the studio, and went down the stairs out 

into 
the street. . . . 

I am sorry now I did it and, although I 
never meant to tell you the reason — now, 
because it all seems so trivial, I think 
I shall: 

Do you remember how I stopped laughing the 
instant you opened the door? 
That was because I noticed at once the 
little plant I gave you was placed in a 
dark corner, withered and dead. 

—23— 






WEARmESS 

No, I do not want to dance tonight, 

nor talk nor play. 

You think I am foolish because I 

want to sit here and stare into the 

night? I wonder! 

You say I am lazy? 

I wonder at that too. Well, no matter. 

You go and dance and leave me here 
alone ; then when you return you will 
tell me what you have accomplished by 
your dancing, and if you feel any the 
happier for it, — ^but no, do not bother — 
I think I shall be too tired even to listen. 

It is true you will be exercising 

your legs, but I shall sit here 

and travel far and wide among the stars — 

and exercise my soul. 

Do you know my body seems strangely 

lax tonight? 

I think I must be quite exhausted; 

—24.— 



and I am sure that I could sit here 
for years and years and never move 
a muscle or enter into life at all again. 
So tired am I. 

Perhaps, if I sit here long enough, 
all the generations of the future will come 
and tell me their secrets because they 
will know I should be far too weary 
ever to repeat them. 



25— . 



OPPORTUNITY 

It is strange how seldom people can judge 
the psychological moment to reach forth 
their hands and grasp what they desire. 
How often does the gardener in the field of 
life pick the rose before it has really 
opened or just a little too late, when 
it has already commenced to fade and drop 
its petals, — but how divinely fortunate 
is the one who plucks it just at the right 
moment and, as a reward, not only has the 
rose, but very often with it a tiny, glistening, 
jewelled drop of dew! 

We cannot say that this is merely chance, 
but rather a God-like bit of intuition 
that is wound about and entwined in some 
souls. 

Too often in our feebleness we say opportunity 
makes us what we are ; and we do not realize our 
strength or we should say that we will make 
opportunity for that which we wish to be! 

—26— 



I feel that opportunity is something which grows 
often and plentifully in the lives of some but, 
like the grass beneath our feet, it is very 
seldom cultivated and springs up noiselessly 
and silently so that we do not notice it. 

Most of us, when we wish to do something very 
much or attain a great desire, expect the 
moment for fulfillment to come heralded with 
blasts of trumpets — and when it does not 
come that way, but through an unpretentious 
medium, we cannot grasp its significance; 
and so we pass it by . . . 

The wise soul is he who expects and seeks 
opportunity in all places — ^not graspingly 
or shrewdly, but silently and with great 
faith ; and who knows and comprehends the 
law that not always must we go out to seek 
it, but perhaps, while merely contemplating 
the stars, will we gain force — and so it 
will come to us. 

Not too obviously, perhaps, but with an interior 
illumination that will give us the Vision 
and show us the path onward. 



—27- 



TIME 

Time and space mean very little to me today. 
I am sitting here thinking of ten years ago 
and marvelling because it seems so close and so 
little forgotten, — infinitely nearer than those 
moments of even yesterday, which seem already 
remote and distant. 

How strange time is! 

> 

Do you know I often fancy that old Father 

Time 
holds in his hand some musical instrument? 

Maybe 
a harp or a lyre — instead of a scythe as he is 
always depicted — and he plays and plays and 
plays .... mostly very low ; and then things 
that occurred only yesterday seem vague, almost 
forgotten and far away. 

But sometimes he sees our hearts craving to recall 
vividly some face, to live over again some 
moment, or to hear once more an almost forgotten 
echo — and then he takes compassion upon us and 

—28— 



he plays madly and loudly, and suddenly, as 

though 
in a vision, we witness departed moments ; or we 
see a face or hear a voice close beside us, and 
so real are they, that we have but to stretch out 
our hands to touch and caress them, or turn 
our heads to hear the cadence of a voice rise from 
out the long-dead past. 

Have you noticed how vividly old people recall 
their childhood? 

Ah, that is because Father Time, being so old 
himself, has a profound attraction for old age, 
based on reciprocal qualities which he knows 

them 
to share in common with him. 

So of course he loves them best and, realizing 
that he has no earthly future to offer them, he 
draws down his musical instrument and plays 

louder 
and louder — and lo! they can sit for hours at 
a time, slowly rocking backward and forward, 

and 
all the while they are living over again some 
cherished moment and hearing sweet, enchanted 

music. 

And, if you listen closely during the silent 
intervals between the squeaking and rocking of 



29 



their chairs, I am sure you will hear them saying 
softly to themselves as they nod their heads 

slowly 
to and fro — 

"Why, it all seems only yesterday!" 



—30— 



REVELATION 

It seems to me that life is absolutely 
futile and incomplete until we realize that 
no matter what we are doing, or whither 
going, it is because of some preconceived 
reason; and that in the end, when we have 
reached the last turning of the road and 
come to lay down our wearying burdens, no 
matter what our regrets through life may have 
been — we will know and fully comprehend 
that the tending of our footsteps this or 
that way was merely the working out of a 
great end. 

The orientation of our views is so limited 
and circumscribed that, when something comes 
to us which we have not desired, we can 
only feel the bearing down of a cruel fate 
upon our heads. And too often we toss those 
same heads back in stubborn despair and grind 
our teeth in the gale of what must be — 
thereby losing our balance and sense of what 
might be had we the courage to entwine 
our strength with that of the Infinite ! 

—31— 



Many times the inveiglement of an idea — a set 
idea which perhaps we have nourished in our 
hearts for days — ^will keep us from all 
realization of the good we might gain by a 
different shaping of our lives from that 
which we had dreamed. 

To some of us the revelation never comes ; 
and we go on pursuing life with our noses 
pressed to the ground, without a glimmer 
of comprehension of the great and superfine 
machine which marks out and registers our lives. 

To others, who are perhaps more worthy, the 
revelation does come, and usually during or 
after our darkest hours. 

It is indeed a proof of the Divine that we should 
receive light after darkness! 

To these same it is strange how sometimes 
it will come slowly like the rising of the 
moon, and then again quickly as a flood 
of sunlight after a darkening cloud has passed. 

In the sad or desperate moments of our lives 
when indeed we see nothing to go on for — 
when we are torn and spent and there seems 
no end to the coursing of the blood from 
out our hearts — it is then that the knowledge 

—32— 



in a flash comes to us, that there must 
be a reason, and that we could not be made 
to suffer so without an ultimate beneficial 
purpose. 

And so all striving seems puerile and we cease 
to beat our wings against the cage, lift our 
torn hearts instead to the sweet rain of 
heaven and ask to see the star that may guide us. 

And, as small children who, seeing not, obey, 
so we too, set forth ; and, although unconsciously, 
in our faith become as sages. 



-83- 



FINDING GOD 

I HAVE been reading tonight a book on 

science which, I think, tends to 

kill all spiritual hope and attributes 

everything to the material; taking away 

our dreams of miracles, crushing 

our hopes in the Beyond and 

tearing down the belief of a divine 

intuition within us. 

It explains all these things as springing 

entirely from pathological causes and 

seems to feed the intellect while 

it starves the Soul. 

I think so much has been said in this generation 

about science, so much has been questioned and 

delved into about it that I cannot help 

feeling that science will eventually encompass 

and satiate the world — that is, if we let it 

engulf us completely and turn our hearts and 

souls into rocks and machines ; and insist in 

believing that the still silent voice within 

us, which we once called God, is merely the 

emotion caused by a craving for food or sleep 

—34— 



or air, or some other physical necessity — 
which will cease when we last close these 
weary eyes of ours. 

It is indeed true to call this the age of science 
and "The Iron Age," for what could tend to 

make 
men's hearts more thoroughly iron than to tell 
them to stifle and kill all their emotions and 
that we are, after all, only a part of the scheme 
of the Whole, and must not look forward be- 
cause 
there is no Beyond? 

"Where there is no vision the people perish." 
So in this age when men seek and in answer 
find only a golden frame — ^with no color 
picture inside to brighten the rooms of life — 
but instead cold dismal facts, perhaps then 
it is well that thousands of these poor 
men should be killed off and not taste the bitter 
poison to the end. 

And yet, is it not the irony of fate that 
science again with its machine guns, its 
poisoned gas and all other improved and 
advanced diabolical warfare should be the 
hand to slay them? 

Men's ears that can only listen to the roar 
of machinery, cannot hear the song of the 

—35— 



birds ; men's bodies and feet that are so well 
clothed, cannot feel the clay of the earth nor 
the poetry of the wind and sun on their bodies; 
men's eyes that are tired straining in the 
research room or the laboratory cannot see the 
stars, and men's hearts that lead themselves inta 
believing that from the decay of these poor 
bodies there is no future, cannot see God. 

And by these words I do not mean to refute 
the great and everlasting good that science 
has done for the world, nor do I forget the 
vast progress for the benefit of humanity in 
surgery, hygiene and medicine, and the advance- 
ment 
toward comfort, economy of time and manual 

labor 
which it has donated to us by the efforts and 
sacrifices of wonderful and brave men. 

To all those who have toiled and still have been 
able to Believe, I should like to write a eulogy. 

But it is to those who, in their search in science, 
have lost their ideal and come to live so scentific- 

ally 
that their souls, as it were, have dried up and left 
only the workings of their brains — 
it is from these, that I would turn my face away. 

—36— 



To Kve really it is impossible to live scientifically. 
We must live by the emotions to survive and find 
God, because it is only by and through the 

emotions 
that we truly palpitate and feel .... and 

reaching 
out we extend our hands and lean far into the 

Vast 
Space of the Infinite! 



-37— 



BRAINSTORM 

How absurd people are! As if anyone could 

ever 
understand anyone else ! I am so tired of people 
always trying to understand me, when I hold no 
understanding of myself. Tonight I have no 

faith 
and in my brain there are chaos and whirlwinds. 
I have ceased to believe in God or man. 

Do you remember when I used to talk to you of 
ideals 

and truth and all such false things? That was 
when 

I was quite mad, but tonight I am sane; sane and 

weary of all control and pretenses. I am tired of 

being polite, of talking low when I wish to shout, 
of 

laughing when I want to cry. I am tired of con- 
vention 

and going to dinners and saying "What a charm- 
ing party 

—38— 



this is" when all the while I should like to tear 

the 
table-cloth off and smash up the best china. 

I am tired of shuffling feet, ever struggling on- 
ward 

and leading nowhere. I am tired of weak vacil- 
lating 

people and those who do not know real love — 
Love is 

no love at all where for its sake one is not willing 

to commit a crime. But I am also tired of loving 
and 

of being loved — it seems to be the dark ages since 

I spoke to you of love — I am tired of lies and 
truth — 

more tired of truth since it only raises hopes and 
in the end fails. 

How futile all these things are, how misguiding 
and tragically frail! 

If Life only had long hair so that I might run 

my hand 
through it and tear it from its roots ! If I could 
only be an earthquake and shake the very civiliza- 
tion 
of life! Civilization, what a farce! As if there 
existed any such thing. I wish I could be a 
hurricane 

—39— 



and crush down everything in my way, or a mad- 
dening 

thunderstorm, with its flashes of blood and fire 
across the skv . . . 

A thousand dead bodies to-night might lie in 
my way 

and I should like to walk over them and, I wish 
that 

Life itself were a strip of gauze so that I might 
tear 

it asunder and throw it to the winds ! 

Chaotic wild thoughts are running through my 

brain, 
but mostly darkness and a mad desire to end it 

all. 
I am so very tired of Life, but most of all I am 

tired 
of myself. 

Oh, My God, let me break these chains . . . 
I am so very tired of myself! 



40— 



PEACE 

It had been such a warm day. Toward sunset 
do you remember how we stole away to the 
beach and after driving for some time we 
finally came to the dunes, got out of the 
motor and walked the rest of the way? 

I can remember now how white the sand was 
and how our feet sank in it and, when we 
drew them out again it seemed to cover our 
tracks leaving hardly any impression behind us. 
I remember also how the long reeds sprang up 
and almost hid you from view ; then we began 
to climb the dunes and all out of breath 
we reached the top, and there below us lay 
the beach, and the ocean spreading out from 
it as far as we could see. 

I recall catching my breath as I always do 
when I again perceive the ocean after having 
been away from it. It always seems to fill 
me with such inexhaustible wonder and pours 
into my soul a peculiar strength and power 

—41— 



to go on with the dull and terrible things 

of life forcing me to finish and, at 

the end, to conquer them. 
I can see now the blueness of the water and 
feel again the great stillness that seemed 
to be about us. Over our left shoulder 
back of us lay the inlet, with the sun shining 
on it and causing it to dazzle like a steel 
needle; and the long thin white beach — like 
a golden thread — stretching from it and 
finally seeming to trail off to nothing and 
burying itself in the foam of the sea. 

Do you remember how we lay there for ever so 
long and neither of us said a word? Finally 
the sun went down and we watched the sand 
change from gold to red; the sky became violet 
with little shadings of green and pink and 
then suddenly — as if by magic — the ocean 
became quite calm and a fascinating little 
star appeared reflecting and twinkling on the 
inlet. 

Back on the main land we watched the little 
lights of the houses come out one by one; 
in the twilight at first they were very faint 
and pale, but after as the night stooped 
down and crept upon us, they grew brighter and 
stronger. 

—42— 



And then for the first time you broke the silence ; 
turning to me you asked, "What are you feel- 



ing?" 



I answered, "Peace." 



—43— 



TWILIGHT DREAMS 

As I open the long windows and step out upon 
the terrace, the presence of the mysterious 
hour is upon me ... 

A strange undefined blue mist rises from the 
earth and gently, like a magical veil, winds 
itself around the trees and slowly rising, 
presses its face against the sky as though to 
peer into the eyes, and read the heart of the 
stars. 

Fantastic trees dimly outlined, bend together 
and whisper softly; suddenly I feel as though 
the air were charged with all the wishes of the 
world. Great and small, joyous and sad wishes, 
all thrown out from the struggling desirous 
heart of Life and, at twilight hour stealing 
silently — some a little ashamed, some a little 
proud — to nestle under the white moon — ^flowers 
in hopes that some soul of the dead — ^which steal 
about at twilight hour too — may be their friend 
and help them to come true. 

Timidly, and trembling a little from the embraces 
of the mist, a tiny star shines out, while slowly 

—44— 



and reverently the darkness kneels down and 
kisses 

the face of the earth. 

A vast and deep silence has come over every- 
thing; 

and I, with all else, find myself holding my 

breath as I steal back into the room and sink 
into a chair. 

Leaning back languidly I half close my eyes, 
while 

far oflp I smell the salt and sadness of the sea . . . 

Weirdly and ghostlike you creep in and, in my 

twilight dreams, you come to me I 



—45— 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



i 








M 



'm 



!^ 






